All men are full of fables. The business man in the suit lives no more of an authentic life then the homeless man, telling fabricated stories that none can verify. The deacon in the pew sticks to his predetermined script just as much as the petty criminal or psychiatric ward. The pastors wife wears the same mask as the prostitute, only in a different color. And both weep in loneliness behind it.
We all live lives of fiction to some extent, for all lives are naught but stories in the making. And because the old toothless wonder selling flowers on the street is unwashed we deny him the dignity and compassion of playing along. We look down on him and give a wide girth because he is nothing but an old fool telling tall tales. But the suited and waxed CEO or pastor can live a fantasy every day of perfect marriages and happy homes and we only whisper soft doubts in the corners and then come out to nod and smile in reverence at the elaborate fiction that he weaves with smiles and dollars and dinners.
We despise and condemn to hell one broken man's fictional life of misidentification and gender confusion, but the confusion of the theologian or PHD who is miserable and angry and hurting behind their self made identity, is worthy and excusable, celebrated and sold for profit.
Why is one mans fiction worthy and the others is despicable? Why is the son who lives at home, and behind his fantasy of obedience and respectability is secretly bitter and angry at the father, acceptable, but the one who ran off and squandered his fortune in a comedy of errors, reprimand-able? Why is one mans fiction an ideal and another's a hallucination? Why do we withhold the common right of dignity to some and hide behind its veil with others.
Life is naught but fable and fantasy and story, weaving and dancing its way through time and matter. We all live out our own fictions and the Father joins with a smile and dances with us, validating our self told fables with His partnership and gently leading us into the true story. Slowly and gracefully spinning us into the narrative of creation, helping us to find our footing and rhythm. He dances with the beggars and the lame, he waltzes with business men, as they trip over their intoxication with wealth and affirmation. He twirls the delusional and broken with the same grace and steps He weaves with those who cannot see His face for fear of it. Some dance trembling with their eyes shut tight, for God is to fearful for man to look on and live, and yet still He dances with them. For they need not see Him, He can lead with the slightest touch.
The dance of fable and fantasy, the false steps, the missteps, and graceful recoveries or halting and hesitant participants. The great circle dance with the Father, Son and Spirit. The great weaving of the great stories and the myths we comfort ourselves with, He is in them and through them all. Whether it be the story of the swindler on the corner with the cardboard sign, or the posh and polished tale of the American house wife trapped in a delusion of false hope. He is the master story writer and final editor of all our tragedies and comedies, fictions and fables, and in the end, the end is good.